If this looks vaguely familiar, you probably received it as an e-mail forward from your drag racing buddies. There’s another Hemi-centric version that’s kind of a hack-up of this. The funny thing is I wrote the original, and don’t really like the Hemi version much.

Back in 2005 the first version of “A visit from St. Garlits” ran on CompetitionPlus.com where I was working as a writer. Anyway, in honor of my new digs here on FJY.com, I’ve updated it a little. Enjoy and have a very merry Christmas!

A Visit From St. Garlits
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the pits
Not a crew man was stirring, no nitro cars were making hits

The rods and pistons were hung in their holsters with care,
In hopes that St. Garlits soon would be there;

Capps and Scelzi were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of header flames danced in their heads;

And Linda Vaughn in her ‘kerchief, and Dave Freiburger in his cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the strip there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the tower I flew like a flash,
flipped on the lights and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the freshly prepped track
Gave the luster of mid-day and hit my eyes with a smack,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature old digger, powered by eight tiny Hemis, oh dear!

With a little old driver, so quick like a starlet,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Garlits

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Ashley! now, Robert! now, Mike and John!
On, Reynolds! on Lohnes on, Turk and Kinnan!

To the starting line tree! To the top end of the strip!
We must leave the line hard, we have quite a trip!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With a blown Hemi on nitro, and St. Garlits too.

And then, in a twinkling, I smelled on the roof
A snoot full of nitro, it was the last bit of proof!

As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Garlits came with a bound.

He was dressed all in black, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of parts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his demeanor so merry!
His headers were hot, they glowed like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a chassis pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

He was short and stout, a right intimidating old elf,
And I stood at attention when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And rebuilt a blower; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his slingshot, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they launched off, with the ferocity of a missile.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”